My mourning and my private feelings were hidden in my temple

It was a story of abandonment.

It was the diary of the rain that fell in the sleepy eyes of the night, how I was caught unprepared for my age.

My mourning and my privacy were hidden in my temple, and I never wished for melancholy from the universe, but I had stories whose roots were hidden in yesterday, in which I was imprisoned, whereas every story was an expression of freedom, I think if you wrote it.

More than I can perform, the sound of the siren leaking from my heart and coming from outside, and I stay in silence at work.

What is the nature of the season, when that silence that is about to explode inside me is not long after, and maybe it is for the sake of making up for the times I lost, maybe this is my endless enthusiasm and my love of writing and I surrender to a gentle wind, I go on a journey almost every night in the universe, and there is no possibility of being road tired either. Even if my body is alive and my soul is still, I can aspire to the whole universe in the suspended sky and with a rumbling beat in my heart.

It is obvious that I circumambulate.

Even when I'm attached to life.

I look forward to it every night on my journey, while I can't accept where I will go and what I can write and that I can still write because I don't like anything I write and it's not hard to delete my texts and poems without showing them ruthlessly, you know, the articles and poems that I made so many pillows in my memory. Of course, I also store it on the computer.

Hundreds of thousands of sentences that I stacked as if there was going to be a shortage, and the messyness of my desktop and the extravagance of my brain matched, and at that moment when I felt good at work, just like crazy, I took notes and piled up on the table during my university years, hundreds of pages, and I entered the camp in my room before the finals and proved my age.

It is so obvious that I know no bounds in knowledge and books, and that's why I am generous when I love: both when I write, when I go shopping for books, and when I get close to people and love them from afar, especially when the closeness I have established in human relations explodes after a while and almost coincides with death. I have accumulated endings and many living dead, I doubt it is in the past and its breeze is still like yesterday.

I love tossing, just as much to swing.

I love to love and it is the only truth that I can't learn from my disappointments and that I finally accept and face myself.

There are beings who have immunity and those who are not alive.

The immunity of my soul is not relative, you know, when we look at the tissue loss in my heart, alas.

The colors are exuberant, just like pencils.

Emotions are without brakes, just like I ignored and ignored myself, now that I have made my absence overlap with my nothingness and built my existence into nothingness, I have been able to overcome the problems well and badly lately, although the external picture does not seem very convincing to people, but at least I stopped deceiving myself, and my heart and my existence have come of age. I proved good bad.

Spinning wheels.

The wheels crumble.

Of course, while none of us can end the cycle in the system, we protect ourselves in our trenches by being able to love at least, and we also register our stance in life, in this context, we do not blame ourselves for anything that goes wrong...

If only living were as easy as writing, at least when the needle of enthusiasm shows the joy of living, it means it's not too late for anything.

I wish to forget that I have been forgotten, but what I have forgotten presents me with new findings in the excavations they have made in my brain.

A commanding heart: sorry myself.

How is it obvious that I'm not growing?

I'm sorry mom.

My soul is a mixed market and my brain is full of thousands of papers just like the desktop on my computer.

How long is my jostle and I can never format my memory.

Maybe if I sleep, the lower memory comes into play, and I can't update my dreams, especially when I can't empty my trash.

Dear city?

How many times a day do they come to collect the garbage, moreover, the waste of many things is presented to nature as additives through recycling.